


Vergessen

by LostBerryQueen



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:28:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23917558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostBerryQueen/pseuds/LostBerryQueen
Summary: Mrs. Coulter finds Lyra before Lyra discovers what is really going on at Bolvangar.
Relationships: Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 94





	1. It Melts

Lyra’s fingers strained and her abdomen burned. Pan licked at her face encouragingly, but she could feel his small body shaking. 

The voice. After going so long without hearing it. Lyra had once burned her hand in the kitchens, when she and Roger were running through. The boiling water had seared so hot that for a moment it felt cold. The voice was like boiling water splashing up from the floor, except there was a precision to it, like a book of pain was being pressed against her back, between her shoulder blades. 

She tightened her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. 

The floor knocked the wind out of her, and Lyra was left to wonder how she had let go. 

“Ah, and who is this?” 

The boots clicked over, and Lyra had the sense to turn away, to delay that searing realization just a little longer. She ran, and for a joyous moment escape felt possible. But Pan wasn’t fast enough. 

The weight falling on their backs, clamping around their necks, pressing their faces into the cold floor. The other children couldn’t help but gasp as she fell, their regimented compliance broken by a touch too much fear. 

Lyra felt her heart spilling tears of blood as those footsteps came nearer and nearer. Strong fingers clamped around her arm, turning her over. 

Mrs. Coulter’s face changed. The smile washed away, the eyebrows lifted slightly and the predatory glint in her eyes fell below the waves. 

Pan was a large rat in the golden monkey’s paws. The kind of kitchen rats that lived in Jordan College, and somehow knew how to avoid all the traps set out for them. The educational environment allowed them to thrive. 

The golden monkey’s hold loosened, and Pan flew upwards as a moth. 

Mrs. Coulter reached forward tentatively, then stopped. “Lyra?” 

It didn’t feel like a question that Lyra was equipped to answer. She found herself shaking her head. 

“Lyra.” Mrs. Coulter’s voice was soft and warm. 

A bath. Cold mornings in silk pajamas. Heights you wanted to fall from, just to see if you could fly like a daemon. 

Pan landed on Lyra’s shoulder as a young raven. Lyra took the gesture for the stern warning it was. She couldn’t afford to be overpowered. She needed to think of a lie to save them both. 

Lyra felt arms slipping under her shoulders, pulling her gently into a tight embrace. Whispers were breaking out around them, the kind that were distinctly hostile. 

Mrs. Coulter ignored the other children, guiding Lyra somewhat urgently to the door. She closed it behind them, then opened it again. “Lovely to see you all.” 

Lyra exchanged a glance with Pan. She resisted the urge to run while Mrs. Coulter’s attention was briefly taken by the short five-word phrase. Running was what she wanted. Just run and never stop. Her body was stiff with the effort it took to resist it. 

“My darling,” Mrs. Coulter’s face was full of an energetic charm. 

She must have recovered enough to start lying again, Lyra reasoned. She would have to do the same. She smiled weakly. “What are you doing here Mrs. Coulter? How did you find me?” 

Mrs. Coulter wrapped her arm around Lyra and it took all of her self-control not to shrug it off. 

“Well, didn’t I tell you I have connections?” 

“To this horrible place? How could anyone get connections to _here_?” 

Pan dug his claws into Lyra’s shoulder warningly, but Mrs. Coulter just laughed. 

“I couldn’t let my assistant slip away without a search, could I?” 

“Surely you could have found a replacement?” Lyra said, widening her eyes. “Doesn’t everyone want to work with you?” 

A hint of a frown graced Mrs. Coulter’s features, and it gave Lyra a sudden feeling of strength. She wanted to make Mrs. Coulter angry. In the chaos, she reasoned, perhaps she could escape. 

Mrs. Coulter’s arm had slid from Lyra’s shoulder, and Lyra dared to take another step back. “What about your daughter? The kids here say you have a bastard.” Lyra put as much venom into the word as she could, but she miscalculated, and the word that was meant to sound assured and powerful cracked. Lyra’s attempted blow towards Mrs. Coulter became a boomerang, and Lyra felt her eyes stinging as though they had been slapped. 

Mrs. Coulter slowly reached forward. Cupping Lyra’s face, she rubbed her thumb under Lyra’s eye. The tear fell, and Lyra shuddered. 

Mrs. Coulter smiled, clearly enjoying having gained the upper hand once more. “That’s not a word you should use.” 

“Wh-why didn’t...why didn’t you tell me?” 

Lyra’s defenses had fallen away, and now she was just another scared orphan at Bolvangar, left in the cold to question life’s deepest injustices. Memories of abandonment, and, ironically, the things they themselves had abandoned to get here. Because didn’t they all _choose_ (at least some form of the word anyway) to follow the woman with the light and the stories and the golden monkey? 

Mrs. Coulter pulled Lyra close once more. 

Lyra tried to memorize the code Mrs. Coulter typed into the keypad, as she watched through blurred eyes. She recited the code to herself, but the numbers tripped over each other, becoming jumbled, blending together like so many daemonless bodies buried under snow. 

Mrs. Coulter glanced at the bed and let out a heavy sigh. She pulled out the chair at her desk, and guided Lyra to sit in it. Pan fluttered by Lyra’s shoulder. 

Lyra wiped at her face and tried her best to stop the sobs. Her body was being quite disobedient for the harder she tried to suppress them, the more they came. 

Mrs. Coulter knelt on the floor in front of Lyra. Lyra resisted the strong temptation to kick her in the face. 

Mrs. Coulter reached for Lyra’s hands, but meeting her eyes she didn’t take them. Lyra realized that something of her hatred must have shown on her face. 

“I didn’t plan on having this conversation with you. Can you believe that?” 

“No.” 

“Well, we’re here now. So, you can ask me what you want to ask me.” 

“You never visited. Not once.” 

Mrs. Coulter let out a breath. “I wanted to.” Mrs. Coulter blinked and gave Lyra a sad, warm smile. “But I couldn’t. It would have disrupted your life...it would have been...inappropriate...” 

“Why did you even come back then?” 

“It was time to. There are things about the future, things that you are unaware of. It’s been important to keep you from them, to keep you safe. Would you like me to be your mother now, Lyra?” 

Lyra shook her head vigorously, but when Mrs. Coulter stood slightly and opened her arms, Lyra fell into them. The golden monkey hugged Pan, who was in the form of an ermine. 

Lyra couldn’t help but bask in her mother’s warmth. No one had to know how much she craved this, how much she always had—though she had a bad feeling Mrs. Coulter could see straight through her. Although, Mrs. Coulter had been the only one interested enough to fully look. Lyra had dreaded what would happen when her mother found her. After having experienced the golden monkey’s claws around Pan’s neck, Lyra was acutely aware of the very real possibility that her mother would kill her. For now it seemed, that wasn’t the case. And Lyra could enjoy what little time they had left before she found a way to escape. 

Lyra was curled in a tight ball at her side. Pan was turning and whimpering in his sleep, while the golden monkey pet him soothingly. 

Mrs. Coulter watched them with an intense curiosity. She hadn’t known it was possible to feel this much love for another human being. She couldn’t imagine that her own mother had ever felt this way for her. 

Mrs. Coulter carefully adjusted Lyra’s hair, moving slowly so as not to wake her. There was conflict written all over that young face, and it pained Mrs. Coulter’s heart that Lyra now knew that she had abandoned her. This all would have been so much easier if Lyra hadn’t known the truth, had grown up thinking Mrs. Coulter was just a stranger who had taken interest in her, because she was special, not the shamed birthmother who had thrown her away. Lyra would have inevitably found out the truth eventually, but she could have handled it better if she were older, she could have understood... 

Mrs. Coulter’s position was too complicated for a child to comprehend. The weight of the shame had been something she had wanted to keep off of Lyra’s back. 

But it was also Lyra’s eyes. She didn’t think they would ever look at her the same way again. 

Someone pounded on the door and the sound echoed around the chamber. Mrs. Coulter was jolted by it, and Lyra jumped, eyes snapping open. 

“Mother?” 

Just one small word, and yet hearing it was like someone carving out her heart and filling it with corn syrup. 

“Shhh, I’ll be right back.” Mrs. Coulter stroked Lyra’s face, glancing at the golden monkey to indicate that he stay with them. She wasn’t risking her slipping away so soon after she had found her again. 

Father MacPhail’s perpetually annoyed face greeted her. He was flanked by two Magisterium officials, and Mrs. Coulter couldn’t help but smirk. The man was clearly too intimidated by her to feel safe on his own. 

“Marisa, we come here with unfortunate news.” 

The hint of apology in his voice, was coated with the usual sliminess, but, what startled Mrs. Coulter was that she sensed the hint of something genuine in his tone. She braced herself for the worst. Father MacPhail would only show compassion towards her if he was delivering the news of Asriel...but he couldn’t be dead. There was just no way that Asriel could die. It was not something her brain could comprehend. 

Father MacPhail sighed. “I must say, I do regret being the one to inform you of this.” 

Now _that_ was a clear lie, and it gave Mrs. Coulter some relief. 

“The alethiometer readings are clear, and it is time to perform the most grievous of sacrifices. Before it is too late.” 

“Too late?” The realization of what he meant, pressed against Mrs. Coulter’s sides like a tunnel that went up and down infinitely. 

The two men behind Father MacPhail stepped forward, and Mrs. Coulter found herself pressing her body against the door instinctively, blocking them from the place where the most precious thing lay. 

“I’m sorry,” Father MacPhail said. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.” 

The two men grabbed Mrs. Coulter by the arms, and without her daemon to help fight them off, she felt at a distinct disadvantage. 

“Wait! My solution, my solution is ready.” It wasn’t of course. 

Father MacPhail fixed her with a look of pity. “You can’t seriously prefer that option. We will make sure it is done as gently as possible—” 

“No.” Tears were burning Mrs. Coulter’s eyelids. 

Father MacPhail sighed. 

“Please, it will work. I know that it will.” 

“Very well. But you need to understand that if you go through with this, we may still have to...if the alethiometer...” 

“Yes, yes I understand.” 

The men released her. 

A cold determination sunk into her entire body. 

“Lyra darling, wake up. It’s time for us to go on an adventure.” 

Mrs. Coulter’s voice sounded different. It was like a once strong weed that has grown brittle with frost, that has finally found something unstoppable. 

“I was having an adventure beneath my eyelids,” Lyra retorted, too tired to inhibit her response. 

Mrs. Coulter laughed, but the sound was more shrill than charming. It sent a shiver down Lyra’s spine, and she found herself becoming fully awake. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong.” 

“I can hear it in your voice, something is definitely wrong.” 

The golden monkey growled, and Mrs. Coulter pushed him so hard that he fell off the bed. 

Lyra found herself laughing automatically at the pathetic yet affronted noise the monkey made when it hit the ground. 

That was when Mrs. Coulter started crying. 

Lyra’s face fell and she reached towards her mother instinctively, wanting to offer some sort of comfort. This little gesture only seemed to make things worse. 

Mrs. Coulter’s body shook violently. She gripped the bedsheets tightly, and the golden monkey yowled as she deliberately stepped on his tail. When she was able to get a hold of herself enough to force back the sound of her grief (though tears still streamed down her face) she took Lyra’s hand and kissed it. 

“You are going to have to be very brave,” Mrs. Coulter said in an exaggerated tone, like she was talking to a toddler. 

Lyra squirmed under the phrase. Mrs. Coulter was the only one who ever talked down to her, and it made her feel just as vulnerable as it made her feel safe. 

Lyra couldn’t help but feel curious as Mrs. Coulter led her into the room. The air here was cold, but not as cold as the hallways of Bolvangar. Pan shivered and pressed against her legs in the form of an arctic fox. 

It was a compromise. Mrs. Coulter could save the world, and if she was lucky, her daughter’s life as well. 

Mrs. Coulter saw a gleam of fear coat Lyra’s eyes as she looked around and saw that Father MacPhail and the Magisterium officials were watching them through the glass. 

“They’re here to witness our discovery,” Mrs. Coulter said soothingly, stroking her cheek. 

“What discovery?” 

Mrs. Coulter detected the hope in Lyra’s voice. Despite everything they had been through, there was still a part of Lyra that trusted her. It was very important that Mrs. Coulter use this now. 

Mrs. Coulter opened one of the doors to her machine. The creak of the metal was eerily quiet, refusing to echo in the large space. 

Lyra stepped forward into the circular structure, and when her back was to her, Mrs. Coulter closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. 

Lyra ran her hand along the distinctive metal box. “What do these do?” 

“They examine the mind.” 

Mrs. Coulter opened the box, and forced her way inside. It was a tight fit, but she managed. “Once inside you can learn things about the consciousness that you can’t in any other way.” 

She smiled up at Lyra, seeing the telltale awe and wonder on her face. Mrs. Coulter got out of the intercision box, and just as she had expected, Lyra got into it. The power of learning by observation was never to be underestimated. 

Pan jumped in after her. Mrs. Coulter had to work fast. As the daemon’s back legs were still dangling off of the edge of the metal box in the form of an ermine, Mrs. Coulter grabbed him, pulled him out and slammed the box shut. 

Pan bit into her thumb hard and Mrs. Coulter dropped him reflexively. Lyra’s terrified eyes turned to meet hers through the small rectangle of glass. Pan flew upwards as a sparrow, and in an impressive leap, the golden monkey pulled him down. 

Lyra and Pan cried out in unison. The golden monkey’s grip around Pan’s neck was tight, and Mrs. Coulter hastily opened the second box. She closed the golden monkey and Pan inside. She wasn’t sure how dangerous it was to do this, because it had never been tried before, but the least she could do was not leave them while it happened. 

Pan broke free once inside the box, and the golden monkey let him claw and attack him viciously. The daemons’ anguished cries sank into one mass of pain. 

Lyra was banging on the metal so hard that Mrs. Coulter was certain she would break a finger. Mrs. Coulter pressed herself against the box where Lyra was trapped. It almost felt as though she were pregnant with Lyra again, the two of them close, yet separated by a thin layer of distance, flesh once, this time metal. 

The nurse stood at the one open door, watching. 

“Mother! Don’t do this! Don’t do this! Let me out! Mrs. Coulter! Mrs. Coulter!” 

Mrs. Coulter gave a nod. One motion sealing their fate. The nurse closed the last door. 

Lyra’s screams blended into one, long climb as they cut through Mrs. Coulter and the blade rose and fell. Mrs. Coulter was knocked unconscious by the energy release. 

She came to in her bed. She was met with the unpleasant sight of Father MacPhail sitting at her desk. The golden monkey was perched behind her head, staring down at her sternly. A ripple of hatred rolled through both of them, affirming an interesting discovery—intercision didn’t work when only one was in the box. Of course, Mrs. Coulter would have to try this out with multiple subjects to see if it held true for the majority of them. Perhaps she was already too damaged for intercision to have an effect at all. 

“Here to tell me you’d like to kill my daughter?” _Or that she’s already dead._ Mrs. Coulter felt numb, all of the emotion sapped out of her with Lyra’s last screams. 

“No, actually.” 

Father MacPhail fiddled with one of the trinkets on her desk, and Mrs. Coulter wondered if he was aware of how much that made her want to strangle him. He had his dirty fingers around the locket her mother had given her after Lyra’s birth. It was the kind of thing Mrs. Coulter kept with her but could never bring herself to wear. A picture of the baby, a reminder of her shame. 

“Intercision was a _success_.” He said the word with so much disgust. 

Mrs. Coulter felt her eyes watering. 

She recovered in her room for a few hours before she had the strength to go and see Lyra. They were keeping her in her own room, like she had ordered, and they hadn’t cut her hair. Perhaps her staff did have an ounce of competence. 

Lyra sat up in the bed. Her back was ramrod straight, and she was staring at one distant point in space. When Mrs. Coulter walked past her, she blinked and took in a shuddering breath. Pan was in the corner of the room, his head pressed firmly against the wall. The golden monkey ran to him. He dragged him back from the wall, but Pan just moved forward again, pressing his head back into the wall. The golden monkey pulled him back again, and quickly slid between the wall and Pan. Pan pressed his head into the golden monkey. 

Mrs. Coulter sat on the bed beside Lyra. She waved her hand in front of Lyra’s face. Lyra blinked and took in a shuddering breath. 

Mrs. Coulter had observed children after the intercision process extensively; she’d taken excessive notes on it. Lyra may have not been dead, but she was, essentially, brain dead. 

Mrs. Coulter tucked Lyra’s hair behind her ear. “Lyra, look at me.” 

Lyra’s head snapped towards her mechanically. Her daughter’s eyes were as empty as black holes. 

“Lyra lie down.” 

Lyra’s body snapped backwards onto the bed. 

Hadn’t this been what Mrs. Coulter wanted once? A completely obedient daughter? 

Lyra’s eyes stared up at the ceiling. Mrs. Coulter hovered over her, watching Lyra’s eyes for any hint of a change. She slapped Lyra, _hard_ across the face. Lyra’s entire body spasmed and her head was jerked to the side by the force of the blow. 

“Lyra close your eyes.” 

Lyra’s eyes closed immediately. 

Mrs. Coulter cast her gaze to the golden monkey. 

The golden monkey dug his claws into Pan’s pelt and dragged him over to Lyra. Mrs. Coulter took the daemon in her hands—he was cold—and placed him on Lyra’s abdomen. 

Pan walked forwards—and fell rather than jumped—right off the bed, eliciting a pained cry from the golden monkey. Pan marched straight back towards the wall, though with a slight limp, as though one of his wrists was broken. The golden monkey followed after him, letting out little calls of distress. The golden monkey pressed himself against the wall before Pan could mash his head back into it. 

Mrs. Coulter grit her teeth and closed her eyes. She wished the intercision chamber had killed both of them. It would have been a fate much better than this. 

She left the golden monkey with Pan and went to fetch Lyra’s cloths. Under the name ‘Lizzie Brooks’. Mrs. Coulter gave a watery little smile. It was only fitting that a girl who had been lied to so much about her identity would lie to others about it. 

Lyra’s cloths smelled from a foot away. Mrs. Coulter inhaled deeply. It was so different from the sterile atmosphere she had created in Bolvangar. The clothes themselves were a rebellion, reaching out into the air around it to announce itself. 

Mrs. Coulter dumped the cloths onto the bed, half wondering if the stench could wake something up in Lyra, make her remember. She saw a flash of something shiny, and Lyra’s hand reached out, catching the alethiometer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame it on quarantine, don't blame it on me! Also, blame the 1x06 promo.


	2. Shiny Things

Lyra sat up and held the alethiometer, staring down at it. It was somewhat normal for intercised children to react to shiny things. Usually the nurses would give them tinfoil. 

A dangerous and illegal truth-telling device wasn’t exactly tinfoil. Mrs. Coulter sighed and reached forward to pry the device from Lyra’s fingers. 

Lyra held on tightly, her grip as mechanical and firm as a vice. 

“Lyra let go.” 

“Let go,” Lyra repeated. 

Mrs. Coulter glared. It was normal for intercised children to develop echolalia, a behavior that Mrs. Coulter found particularly annoying. 

“Lyra, you can’t have that,” Mrs. Coulter said with mock patience. “I’ll get you something else pretty and shiny, okay?” 

“You can’t have that, Lyra you can’t have that. Can’t have that.” 

Mrs. Coulter pulled Lyra’s fingers back one by one and wrenched the alethiometer from her grasp. 

Lyra screamed. It was a high shrill scream that felt much too similar to the one that she had made before Mrs. Coulter had lost her forever. 

“Lyra, shhh. Lyra be quiet.” 

Mrs. Coulter placed the alethiometer back in her hands and the screaming shut off immediately. 

Well, if Lyra needed a shiny object to be quiet, Mrs. Coulter may as well let her have this one for now. Soon enough, she would drift into an even less conscious state, and Mrs. Coulter could find something else pretty to give her instead. Not tinfoil. She could have one of the metalworkers sculpt something. Perhaps a shiny figurine of Pan. Yes, that would do quite nicely. 

_The perfect object for a walking dead person._ The golden monkey looked over his shoulder to shoot Mrs. Coulter a vicious glare. 

Feeding Lyra proved to be a challenge. Like the majority of intercised children, Lyra didn’t show a natural interest in food. The hypothesis surrounding this notion was that daemon cutting left the children in a perpetual state of hunger that was not lessened by food. Usually there was one food that, when smelled, the children would eat automatically and without stopping. Oatmeal was a popular one. If Lyra was going to have that reaction to a food, Mrs. Coulter couldn’t find it. 

Ordering Lyra to eat had absolutely no effect. Mrs. Coulter found tears of frustration brimming in her eyes. She remembered the child’s words from when she was alive ‘ _I_ _don’t care about food.’_ Oh, my darling. Starvation was a bad way to go. 

Mrs. Coulter ended up force-feeding her. Lyra thrashed, arms and legs flailing. 

“Hold still.” 

Lyra fell completely still, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. 

When Mrs. Coulter finally released her, Lyra turned and immediately started banging her head against the wall. Mrs. Coulter intercepted her efforts with a pillow, and now that Lyra couldn’t get the hard feel of the wall against her forehead she started to wail. 

Mrs. Coulter gripped both of Lyra’s arms and forced her down onto the bed, making her as still as she could manage. Lyra continued to rock slightly. 

Mrs. Coulter let out a humorless laugh, suddenly wondering what Asriel would think, if he saw her like this. The ‘great and fearsome’ Marisa Coulter, completely at the mercy of a retarded child. The word felt like acid in her mind, leeching into everything else and destroying it. Before this, she never would have thought that she would find a word more hurtful than bastard. 

“Lyra, be still.” 

Lyra ceased her movements. 

Mrs. Coulter let her go. There were red marks and scratches on her arms. Mrs. Coulter traced her finger over the damaged skin on her child’s arms. She would really have to be more careful about controlling her temper. For a child that was, now by design, nearly completely obedient, Lyra was still frustratingly rebellious. It occurred to Mrs. Coulter that the small rebellions could be somewhat conscious, but she didn’t allow herself to entertain too much hope. It was just as likely that Lyra was rebelling automatically, that it was so much in the pattern of who she was that even intercision couldn’t erase it. 

Mrs. Coulter let out a sob. 

The golden monkey carefully eased around Pan, letting his head touch the wall as slowly as possible. He returned to Mrs. Coulter, and allowed her to dig her nails into his neck. Normally, he avoided self-harm at all costs. 

“It hurts less,” The golden monkey said. “Your wretched nails hurt less.” 

Mrs. Coulter gasped, releasing his neck. “I know.” 

The golden monkey circled around Lyra. “Do you think we should do it?” 

Mrs. Coulter shuddered. “Not yet.” 

“It’s not right to make her suffer.” 

Mrs. Coulter stared into Lyra’s vacant eyes. “We don’t know for sure...we can’t be certain.” 

The golden monkey ran his paws carefully over Lyra’s hand. Lyra flinched. 

The golden monkey cast Mrs. Coulter a look. _When would they ever know?_ He jumped off the bed and returned to Pan’s side. 

Mrs. Coulter slept curled around Lyra, but it was like sleeping around a tree trunk. Lyra’s body never relaxed. Mrs. Coulter would wake to Lyra sitting up in bed, rocking back and forth, opening and closing the alethiometer and making clicking noises. 

“Lyra...” she would sing. “Lyra, go back to sleep darling.” 

But no sound would reach her. 

Mrs. Coulter took to pacing around the chamber during the day, and sometimes at night as well. She wanted to bang her own head against the wall, and the only thing stopping her was the fear that Lyra would imitate her. 

The golden monkey was still embarking on his quest to bring Lyra and Pan together, but no matter how many times he dragged the daemon to the bed, he would always march straight back to the wall as soon as he could free himself of the golden monkey’s claws. Mrs. Coulter had laid out a trail of pillows for the daemon to walk without harming himself further, which had been simple because he always followed the same path. The daemon’s wrist had a bandage on it from the first fall. 

Mrs. Coulter knew they should return to London. Perhaps a change in scenery would bring about...something. But she couldn’t shake the obsession that some kind of answer lay here, at Bolvangar.

There was so much data, so many intercised children, and yet she hadn’t found what she needed. She had ordered the doctors and nurses to up the rate of intercision, taking two children per day. They couldn’t sustain this for long, and of course there was the issue of the lessening supply of children. Mrs. Coulter threw herself forcefully into her work, reading the reports, double-checking her employees' data analysis. Yet she found that she couldn’t watch any of the procedures herself. She felt like this was a clear limitation, but she had no way around it. 

Mrs. Coulter attempted to read the alethiometer a few times, but Lyra’s screams every time she took it were too horrible and distracting for her to make any progress. 

Force-feeding Lyra was definitely one of the worst parts of Mrs. Coulter’s day. She would get a feeding tube for her in London. As skilled as these ‘doctors’ and ‘nurses’ were in intercision, she didn’t feel comfortable with them operating on her child in any capacity. Maybe it was the idea of it that bothered Mrs. Coulter the most—Lyra being treated by the same people that treated scattered and collected orphans and neglected children. She wanted her daughter to have something more expensive, more elite. 

Finally, Mrs. Coulter decided that she could analyze reports just as well in London as she could here. Of course she didn’t have access to the variety of intercised children in London, but she had her own subject to focus on, and observing the other children herself hadn’t yielded any valuable new insights so far. 

Mrs. Coulter lifted Lyra up and Lyra yelled and thrashed her arms and legs. 

“Be still.” 

Lyra stilled, clutching the alethiometer tightly. Mrs. Coulter carefully slid her arm over the alethiometer, using her coat to block it from any onlookers' view. As soon as she couldn’t see it anymore, even though it was still in her hands, Lyra began to scream. 

Mrs. Coulter glanced at the monkey, confirming that he had as tight a hold as possible on Pan. Mrs. Coulter considered knocking them out, but decided against it. Drugs could do damage to a normal brain, and so of course it was possible that they could do even more damage to an intercised brain. Test results were inconclusive. 

Tears streamed down Lyra’s face as Mrs. Coulter carried her through the hallways. Pan kept breaking free of the golden monkey and pressing his head against the nearest wall. Mrs. Coulter’s hands were full with Lyra and keeping the alethiometer hidden, or she would have grabbed the daemon herself. 

For their part, the staff kept the children out of the way and did their best not to react to the display. 

By the time Mrs. Coulter dumped Lyra onto the bed in her airship, she was seething with rage. The golden monkey carefully let Pan go (and of course he pressed his head against the nearest wall) and ran to Marisa so she could dig her nails into him. He seemed to now believe wholeheartedly that he deserved this pain. 

“It was the worst thing ever,” the golden monkey said, when Mrs. Coulter had calmed some. “Being in the chamber with him. The moment his body went limp...” 

“I wish I could have been in the chamber with her. I wish it could have been us.” 

Lyra’s eyes had closed of their own accord. Her body seemed to be exhausted from the protests she had put up while leaving. 

Mrs. Coulter went to the window and watched the smooth, empty snow move away below them. 

Mrs. Coulter woke to the familiar feel of Lyra, sitting up with the alethiometer. 

“Mother. Mother with child. Mother.” 

Mrs. Coulter’s ears perked up. She listened closely to make sure she was hearing Lyra correctly. 

“Mother. Mother. Mother with child. Mother.” 

As far as Mrs. Coulter could remember, she hadn’t used the word ‘mother’ around Lyra since the intercision. Perhaps she had said it in her sleep, but if not, that meant there was a chance that some part of Lyra was remembering words, not just mindlessly repeating them. Of course, the nature of the memory might not quite qualify as conscious, but it was still a hopeful sign. 

Mrs. Coulter looked more closely and saw that rather than opening and closing the alethiometer like she had before, Lyra was staring at the needle as it moved. Lyra would then turn the dials on the side and then wait for the needle to start moving. Then she would speak “Mother. Mother. Mother with child. Mother.” 

It looked as though Lyra was _reading_ the alethiometer. The thought was completely insane, of course. However, it was very unlikely that Lyra had known how to read the alethiometer before she went through the intercision process. And if this was the case, it would mean that her actions weren’t just from procedural memory. Lyra had learned how to do something new. 

Conscious thought might still be possible for her. Another strange and glorious idea was coming together in Mrs. Coulter’s mind. The intercised children’s attraction to shiny objects, the relationship between dust and alethiometers—what if it was all connected? What if, intercision allowed a person to read an alethiometer without the books? 

Of course, it was a wild theory. There was no saying for certain that Lyra even _was_ reading the alethiometer. But it was enough of something for Mrs. Coulter to decide to turn the airship around. 


	3. Tinfoil

Mrs. Coulter would have to be discreet about her work. There was no one on her staff that she could trust with the knowledge of her possession of an alethiometer. This was complicated by the fact that Lyra would go into a screaming fit every time the alethiometer was taken from her. 

Sister Clara was a particularly gentle nurse. Mrs. Coulter had known the kind-hearted woman well (or as well as Mrs. Coulter ever really knew people, that is) before Sister Clara's own intercision, so she left Lyra with her while she went to experiment on the other intercised children. 

“Why is she screaming?” Sister Clara asked. 

“She’s upset.” Mrs. Coulter said.

“She’s hurt.” 

“She’s upset. Now, please. Go sit next to her.” 

Sister Clara sat on the bed and took Lyra’s hand. Lyra’s screaming halted for a moment, and her eyes turned to Sister Clara. Then she looked away again and continued screaming. 

“I don’t like it. I don’t like it; I don’t like it.” Sister Clara brought her hands up to cover her ears. 

“Shhh,” Mrs. Coulter laid her hand on her shoulder. “You will like it and you will get used to it. This is the best place you could possibly be.” 

Sister Clara’s face slackened. “The best place you could possibly be.” Her eyes filled with that wild happiness. She reached forward and stroked Lyra. “the best place you could possibly be, best place you could possibly be. The best place.” 

Lyra continued to scream. 

The adults that were intercised were not like the children that were intercised. Their daemons and their minds had fully developed, and so most of them were more conscious than the children. However, the adults that were intercised were not fully free of Dust, which was why it was important to use intercision before a daemon settled—that was the only way to get rid of Dust, the problem was simply how to save the child after the process was over. 

There were considerably less children than before. The Gyptians had attacked Bolvangar while Lyra and Mrs. Coulter had been headed towards London. Losses had been sustained on both sides, and there were a few captives in custody. Mrs. Coulter looked forward to torturing them, but her work with the children came first. 

The first child Mrs. Coulter would be testing was called Bridget. She had the nurses place her in an experimental ward and told them she was trying out isolation therapy as a potential cure for some of the side effects of intercision. 

Bridget was sitting on the edge of the bed when Mrs. Coulter entered the room. Her legs dangled over the side, and she was making clicking noises and clutching a square of tinfoil. 

Mrs. Coulter eased the tinfoil out of Bridget’s hands. 

The clicking noises stopped. Bridget’s head turned to Mrs. Coulter, fixing her with those large, empty eyes. 

Mrs. Coulter held up the alethiometer and the light from it glinted in Bridget’s eyes. She waited for any sort of reaction, but there was none. Growing impatient, Mrs. Coulter slid the alethiometer into Bridget’s hands. 

Bridget started making clicking noises again, her hands rubbing all over the smooth surface. When Mrs. Coulter pulled the alethiometer away, the clicking noises stopped. She felt disappointed. She gave Bridget her tinfoil and the clicking noises began again. 

There seemed to be no difference between Bridget’s reaction to the tinfoil and the alethiometer. Mrs. Coulter would need to test how Lyra reacted to tinfoil. Perhaps she would scream if that was taken away as well. And she had to remember that Lyra had not “read” the alethiometer immediately, it had taken some time. She would come back to Bridget for a while longer, before trying out the tests on another subject. 

Mrs. Coulter sterilized the alethiometer carefully before going back to Lyra. There was no way she was taking any chances that Lyra fall ill, and the alethiometer was bound to pick up pathogens from somewhere with the way she would have to be passing it around. 

When Mrs. Coulter returned to Lyra, the girl was asleep. Mrs. Coulter felt a rush of affection for her. Sister Clara had pulled the blankets up to cover her stiff form, and for a moment it looked as though Lyra were...as though she had never been cut. 

Sister Clara was looming over her, staring at her face with a dedicated intensity. 

“Thank you,” Mrs. Coulter said. 

“She’s _sleeping,_ ” Sister Clara said. 

“However did you manage that?” Mrs. Coulter was genuinely curious. Perhaps Sister Clara had managed to have a calming effect on the girl. Or perhaps she had just tired herself out. 

“I don’t know,” Sister Clara said. 

Mrs. Coulter frowned. She would have to observe Sister Clara with Lyra next time. She should have done it today, but she had been too impatient to start her work with the alethiometers and the other children. If there was a chance at saving Lyra’s mind, there might also be only a certain window of time where this was possible. Mrs. Coulter needed to work as quickly as possible, but so many factors were in the way, hindering her speed. 

“You may go now.” 

“Go?” 

“Yes. But you may visit her again soon. When I need you.” 

“You need me?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

Sister Clara’s eyes lit up. “Thank you. Thank you Mrs. Coulter. I like to be...needed.” 

When the door closed behind the nurse, Mrs. Coulter realized that her eyes were misting. Would Lyra one day be like the nurse? It was bizarre for that to be desirable, but in Lyra’s current state, Sister Clara may as well have been a genius. 

Lyra’s eyes snapped open and she sat up. 

“You’re awake,” Mrs. Coulter said in her gentle, musical tone. 

Mrs. Coulter picked up the tinfoil and held it in front of Lyra’s face. Lyra blinked but otherwise didn’t react. Mrs. Coulter set the tinfoil on Lyra’s lap. She picked up Lyra’s wrist, and placed her hand on the material. 

Lyra’s fingers spread out, feeling it. “No!” 

Mrs. Coulter jumped at the sudden word. 

Lyra shook her head vigorously, fingers opening and closing, folding and unfolding the tinfoil. “No, no, no, no!” 

Mrs. Coulter took the tinfoil away and Lyra began to scream. 

She slid the alethiometer into her hands and Lyra quieted. She pressed her fingers into the surface, and moved it from hand to hand. She started rocking back and forth and humming, as she continued to move the object from hand to hand. 

The golden monkey left his post curled around Pan, and bounded onto the bed to watch Lyra. He reached out and poked Lyra’s hand and Lyra gasped and shuddered. Her movement of the alethiometer slowed. Then she opened the lid and started turning the dials. 

“She knows what it is,” the golden monkey said. 

He found himself on Mrs. Coulter’s lap, but this time, she was hugging him. The warm embrace was such an incredible relief to the golden monkey. Sometimes he forgot how much he missed her affection. 


	4. A Look Inside

Everything was cold. 

Questions spread out around her like stars, too far away from each other for the light to reach in time. Space was moving around her, and yet, there was only one question her mind could ask. 

_Where am I?_

A baby. A beehive. An hourglass with a skull. 

Hands, somewhere in front of her. Hands were turning the dials. 

There was a steady rod of pain running from her stomach to her heart. 

A face, a face was appearing between the stars. _Mrs. Coulter._ A shudder ran through her universe. There was something terrible...but she couldn’t make the connection. What was that face? _Mrs. Coulter._ Where? 

_Where am I?_

Hornets were swarming down her throat. 

Everything was gone. 

The hands were there again, turning the dials. The stars appeared. Slowly, blinking to life. 

_Where am I?_

A voice said “Mother, child. Mother, mother, mother—child.” 

Those words had meant something once. Just like the face. _Mrs. Coulter._

The stars began to move, back and forth, back and forth. 

The hands were suddenly empty. The stars blended into one, searing light. And there was a scream. 

The hands had something, but it was, wrong, wrong wrong. Too light. And it folded. The truth had broken, it had broken, the truth never folds, never melts. 

The melted truth was taken away. 

There was only emptiness. The rod of pain, the empty hands. 

The weight fell into the empty hands. The darkness gathered around her like a heavy blanket, pressing down on the ever-present pain. The stars reappeared. 

_Where am I?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for leaving comments and kudos! I really appreciate reading people's reactions to this. I don't use any archive warnings on any of my stories because I don't like spoilers, so I hope that before reading my work people heed the warning that I give no warnings. My work can be light, but it can also be very heavy.


	5. I Not You

“Mrs. Coulter. Mrs. Coulter, Mrs. Coulter, Mrs. Coulter.” 

Lyra gripped Mrs. Coulter’s arm. Her other hand reached out and ran her nails along Mrs. Coulter’s face. Then the hand snapped back to the alethiometer. 

“Mrs. Coulter, Mrs. Coulter, Mrs. Coulter.” 

“Yes, Lyra. It’s me. It’s Mrs. Coulter.” 

Lyra released Mrs. Coulter’s arm, both hands now back on the alethiometer. 

“Where am I? Mrs. Coulter, Mrs. Coulter. Where am I?” 

Mrs. Coulter took a moment to wipe at the tears that had fallen from her eyes. 

The golden monkey was carefully monitoring Pan, but there didn’t seem to be any changes in the intercised daemon’s behavior. It was only Lyra that was changing. 

“Bolvangar.” The girl’s face slackened and the alethiometer slipped from her hands. “No!” The girl screamed and thrashed her legs. “Don’t do it Mrs. Coulter! Don’t!” 

Lyra launched sideways and Mrs. Coulter caught her in her arms before she fell off the bed. Lyra sobbed and beat her fists against Mrs. Coulter’s back. 

“Lyra, I’m...sorry.” 

Lyra’s body went limp. She pulled away from Mrs. Coulter. Her hands found the alethiometer again. 

“Where am I?” 

A memory. It seemed like Lyra had had a memory. 

“Lyra, Lyra you’re safe darling. You’re with your mother. You’re...happy.” 

“Lyra. Lyra. What. Mother.” 

“I...” Mrs. Coulter began tentatively. “I am your mother.” 

“I am, I am, I am. Your, your. Mother, mother, mother. Lyra. Lyra what mother.” 

Lyra turned the dials of the alethiometer. Mrs. Coulter peered over her, watching which symbols she chose. The baby. The apple. The beehive. 

The alethiometer’s needle then swung to the knife, the lightning bolt and the hourglass with the skull. 

“Mrs. Coulter. Lyra...mother.” 

Lyra gasped. A tear appeared in her eye and she shook her head vigorously. “Mrs. Coulter _hurt_ Lyra.” 

Lyra turned and started slapping Mrs. Coulter’s hand. 

“Lyra, stop it.” 

“Mrs. Coulter Lyra. Stop it, stop it.” Lyra continued to slap Mrs. Coulter’s hand. 

Mrs. Coulter’s free hand came up and slapped Lyra across the face. 

Lyra stilled. Lyra spit in Mrs. Coulter’s face. She grabbed the covers, and pulled them up over her head, taking the alethiometer under them with her. “Mrs. Coulter _hurt_ Lyra!” She said from beneath the covers. 

Mrs. Coulter stood and wiped the spit from her face. The golden monkey was still curled around Pan. She seized the golden monkey by the scruff and threw him across the room. 

The golden monkey landed on his shoulder with a yowl. Mrs. Coulter stalked towards him. 

“Why didn’t you stop me?” 

She lifted the anguished daemon into the air. The golden monkey bit her wrist and scratched at her arm. Mrs. Coulter’s shoulder burned but it wasn’t enough. She wanted the fire to spread throughout her entire body and consume her. 

The golden monkey jerked free of her grip on his neck and swung up to her shoulder. He grabbed her ear hard. “They still need us.” He dug his claws into her earlobe. “If you kill me now, her fate will be much worse.” 

Mrs. Coulter balled her fists and screamed. The golden monkey jumped from her shoulder, crying out in pain as he landed on the hard ground. He limped back over to Pantalaimon. 

Lyra was still repeating the same phrase. Mrs. Coulter ripped the blankets off of her. 

“Lyra, it’s time to eat.” 

“No!” Lyra glowered up at Mrs. Coulter. 

“Lyra you _will_ eat.” 

“Lyra...you _will._ Will, will, will, will, will you?” Lyra’s face slackened with confusion. 

“Lyra eats,” Mrs. Coulter tried. It seemed filler words slowed Lyra’s understanding. 

“Lyra...Lyra _no_ eats _._ Lyra _...starve.”_

If the anger wasn’t pounding in Mrs. Coulter’s chest and rising up her throat, she might have taken a moment to appreciate Lyra’s semantic improvement. Her use of both “no eats” and “starve” was a good indicator that she knew what was going on. It also hinted at the return of episodic memory, if Lyra was thinking into the future, planning ahead. 

But Mrs. Coulter had never been fond of a rebellion. So Mrs. Coulter gripped Lyra’s hair tightly. 

When it was over Lyra didn’t fall into a state similar to sleep like she usually did. Instead, tears streamed down her face. “Hurts, hurts, hurts, hurt.” She mumbled under her breath. 

Mrs. Coulter was filled with a miserable feeling of remorse, made worse by the fact that the golden monkey wouldn’t come near her. And she knew it was for the best. She could lose control. She could kill him. And then where would they be? No one could protect Lyra, if she was dead. 

“Lyra, shhh.” Mrs. Coulter dared to reach forward and brush Lyra’s cheek. 

Lyra gripped Mrs. Coulter’s wrist with both hands, pressing Mrs. Coulter’s hand into her cheek more firmly. “I...not...Lyra.” 

Mrs. Coulter released a long breath. 

“Lyra. Mrs. Coulter’s. Mother. Lyra not I. Mrs. Coulter not...not I mother.” Lyra gasped and turned away, curling onto her side in the fetal position. 

Mrs. Coulter found herself drinking. She had promised herself she wouldn’t do it, but she did. She fell unconscious curled around the intercised girl who hated her so much. 

Mrs. Coulter awoke to the feel of a small finger poking her face. 

“Mrs. Coulter dead. Mrs. Coulter like dead. Dead dead dead. Mrs. Coulter dead...asleep.” 

“Mrs. Coulter is not dead,” Mrs. Coulter said. 

Lyra giggled. “Is, is, is, is, is...asleep! Dead! Dead asleep!” 

Lyra pressed her hand to Mrs. Coulter’s face. “Mrs. Coulter...sad.” 

Mrs. Coulter closed her eyes, savoring the touch of that small hand. 

“Mrs. Coulter sad. Mrs. Coulter sad. Lyra gone. Lyra gone. Is, is, is, is, is.” 

“Lyra isn’t gone,” Mrs. Coulter said, stroking Lyra’s hand and looking into those eyes. “Lyra is here with Mrs. Coulter.” 

“Here? Where, where, where, where, where here? I not Lyra. I not here.” Lyra shoved her head under the pillow. 

Mrs. Coulter sighed. Reminding herself how happy this should make her. Attempting to force down her annoyance wasn’t working. 

“Where is Lyra then, I wonder? If she’s not here?” 

All of the filler words made Lyra’s response slow, which is what Mrs. Coulter intended. “Wonder, wonder, wonder wonder. Then, then, then, then. Here, here, here not. Lyra. Here. Lyra not. Lyra...gone.” 

“Well, Mrs. Coulter misses Lyra then.” 

“Misses?” Lyra emerged from under the pillow and looked at her in confusion. “Misses, misses, misses. Mr. Misses Mr. Uncle. Where Uncle?” 

Lyra was suddenly turning the dials of the alethiometer. Mrs. Coulter reacted instinctively and ripped the alethiometer from Lyra’s hands. Lyra opened her mouth but...she didn’t scream. 

Lyra’s mouth opened and closed. Her hands reached out, patting the bed, searching for the alethiometer. “Where...Uncle.” 

“Your Uncle is gone.” 

“No.” Lyra’s hands found the alethiometer and she started to tug it from Mrs. Coulter’s hands. 

“You can’t have it back unless you obey.” 

“I, not, _you._ Unless, unless, unless...” 

“Lyra, you can have it back if—” 

“I not Lyra! I not you!” 

Mrs. Coulter tried again. “I can have it if I ask what will I eat.” 

Lyra stopped tugging. She held out her hands and nodded. “What will I eat.” 

Mrs. Coulter handed her the alethiometer. 

Lyra turned the dials on the alethiometer. 

“Nothing!” Lyra threw the alethiometer and it hit the hard, stone ground. 

Mrs. Coulter gasped and rushed over to it in a panic. 

“I eat nothing!” Lyra was still yelling. 

Mrs. Coulter’s heart beat hard as she opened the alethiometer, spinning the dials, checking it over for injury. It seemed the only difference was a chip in the corner. She had been immensely lucky. If the alethiometer broke...if it was gone...then Lyra... 

White hot rage overtook her senses. Mrs. Coulter controlled herself long enough to set the alethiometer safely on the desk. 

Mrs. Coulter started slapping Lyra viciously. “That was a bad, bad thing you did! Lyra will not throw the alethiometer!” 

“Mother hurt Lyra.” 

The words amidst the broken sobs had Mrs. Coulter backing away. 

“I not Lyra, I not Lyra, I not Lyra.” 

Mrs. Coulter sobbed into her hands. She would kill herself this instant if there was someone else who she trusted to take care of Lyra. 

“Lyra...” Mrs. Coulter reached out and took the girl’s hand. The girl flinched. 

“Lyra, mother is so, so sorry, my darling.” 

Lyra’s sobs quieted. She sniffed. She pulled her hand away. 

Mrs. Coulter gasped and hugged herself, her nails digging into her sides. 

Lyra sat up and pressed her hand to Mrs. Coulter’s face. “Mother truth.” 

Mrs. Coulter then saw that Lyra had the alethiometer in her other hand. 

“Lyra...” Mrs. Coulter bit her lip. “Be careful, okay?” 

“I not Lyra.” Lyra reached out and set the alethiometer on Mrs. Coulter’s lap. “I not truth.” 

Lyra then turned away and pulled the blankets around her shivering form. 

Mrs. Coulter attempted to get Lyra to use the alethiometer again over the next few days. Lyra wouldn’t touch it, and she wouldn’t speak. Mrs. Coulter decided it was time for a change of scenery. Bridget still hadn’t reacted to the alethiometer, and none of the other children had much of a reaction to it either when she discreetly brought it into the dormitories. Some of the children _did_ prefer it to tinfoil, but none had tried to read it. Except for Lyra. A new idea about how all of this worked was forming in Mrs. Coulter’s mind, but she needed Lyra to read the alethiometer to see if it was true, and Lyra was, seemingly too upset to speak or read it. 

When Mrs. Coulter carried Lyra to the airship, she made no noise at all. As she lay her down in the bed, she could have sworn she heard her whisper: “mother hurts I.” 


	6. I Through Eyes

The colors moved past their edges, blending, swimming out in movements they shouldn’t have been able to make. But the world was there.

Without the truth in her hands, there was only the present.

She gripped the face. The face of  _ Mrs. Coulter  _ who was  _ Lyra’s mother.  _ She gripped the face mostly to keep it from swaying, but also because she needed to touch someone. She could see the world, even speak into it, but she still felt so far away from it. 

Lyra was so far away from her that she was almost gone. Mrs. Coulter kept putting the truth in her hands, but if she used the truth, she would bring Lyra back, and with her the pain, and the memories. 

It was better not to speak, because the words disobeyed her. They crumbled because they couldn’t carry the images that were her thoughts, and she couldn’t remember which ones were strong enough to carry the intended meaning. 

It was better for Lyra to be gone, because Mrs. Coulter was always here. And Mrs. Coulter hurt Lyra.  So she was not Lyra, or You, she was simply I. There was nothing Mrs. Coulter could do that would reach an I. 


	7. Shards of Something

Mrs. Coulter would have to be ridiculously creative if she was going to get Lyra to speak again. She had hoped that when she had gotten to London, and Lyra was in her own room again...but every time Mrs. Coulter brought her to the room that was once Lyra’s, Lyra’s eyes would widen with fear. She would go to the window, open it, and when Mrs. Coulter pulled her back, she would struggle free and run to the door. 

So Mrs. Coulter kept her in her own room, although it made her exceedingly uncomfortable at first. The idea of letting the child fully into her life, into her most private space, was painful. But Lyra was calm in her large bed, and she spent most of her time gripping Mrs. Coulter’s face, and staring into her eyes. 

It might have been like having a baby, except that Mrs. Coulter could see something in those eyes. Determination and defiance. Lyra seemed less like a baby, and more like a cat, that, when trapped by a more fearsome predator than themselves, remained completely still until they could find a way to escape. 

Mrs. Coulter had bought a dog bed for Pan, and the golden monkey spent nearly the entire day curled up in it with the intercised daemon. Mrs. Coulter had become accustomed to viewing the golden monkey as her dumber other half, but it was actually him who came up with the idea. 

“You’re always wearing a mask,” he said. “So why don’t you try a real one? Lyra’s always touching your face, what if she thought she was touching someone else’s?” 

Mrs. Coulter laughed at the idea initially. However, as wild as the idea was, she was desperate enough to try something crazy. 

The golden monkey had to leave Pan, and leave the room, which he didn’t like at all, despite the whole thing being his idea. He sat sullenly in the vent, watching them. 

Mrs. Coulter wore velvet, hoping it was a material that Lyra would like the feel of. A velvet mask and hood, velvet gloves and a dark jacket and long skirt. She even wore a different, and strong scent just on the off chance that Lyra could recognize her smell. 

Lyra reached out and touched her hand and flinched. She moved her finger over the velvet, smoothing a small patch of it, face scrunched up. She walked two fingers up Mrs. Coulter’s shoulder, blinking and frowning. 

She pressed her hand into the mask on Mrs. Coulter’s face. 

“Mrs. Coulter...gone.” Her voice was small, and cracked from lack of use. 

Mrs. Coulter breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Coulter reached out and stroked her face. 

Lyra shook her head. “Soft, wrong.” 

Mrs. Coulter bit back a laugh and lowered her hand. Mrs. Coulter resisted the urge to speak, not wanting Lyra to recognize her voice. 

“Mrs. Coulter gone. Mrs. Coulter gone. Lyra...here.” 

Mrs. Coulter lifted the tray of food from the nightstand and carefully held it out in front of Lyra. 

Lyra pressed her finger into a square of cheese. “Mrs. Coulter eat. Lyra hurt. Want gone.” 

Lyra pushed the tray, rattling the contents and spilling the fruit juice on the blankets. Mrs. Coulter sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. It took all of her self-control to set the tray back on the desk without hitting her daughter over the head with it. 

Lyra scouted back from where the juice was spilled, pointing at it and rocking back and forth. “Hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt.” 

Mrs. Coulter pulled the wet blankets so they were farther away from her. 

Lyra gripped her knees tightly, rocking back and forth and pressing her forehead into them. Mrs. Coulter rubbed her shoulder. When the rocking stilled, she got out the alethiometer and placed it in Lyra’s hands. 

“Truth...” Lyra said slowly. “Hurts.” She threw it onto the bed. 

Mrs. Coulter bit her tongue, and gathered the alethiometer again. She opened it and pressed it into Lyra’s hands, holding her fingers on the dials. 

“Hurts!” Lyra called in distress, body trembling. 

Mrs. Coulter sighed and put the alethiometer away. 

Lyra reached up and pressed her hand to Mrs. Coulter’s face, wrinkling her nose in apparent dislike of the velvet. Mrs. Coulter’s mind started to wander. This was progress, in a way it had worked. What concerned Mrs. Coulter was the pain. If Lyra couldn’t get past it, how would she heal? But how could Lyra get past the pain if it was all she knew? And how could she know anything else if she refused to use the alethiometer? 

Lyra pinched at the velvet and tugged on the mask. Before Mrs. Coulter could stop her, her hand was sliding underneath it. 

“Mrs. Coulter,” Lyra said, her hand pressing against her skin. 

Mrs. Coulter reached up and grabbed her wrist. “Yes, yes it’s me. But, Lyra, I won’t hurt you while the mask is on.” 

“Mrs. Coulter! Mrs. Coulter! Gone. Mrs. Coulter here. Not gone, not gone, gone gone not. Won’t won’t I hurt you. Mrs. Coulter not I. Lyra gone.” 

“Mrs. Coulter not hurt you mask here,” Mrs. Coulter tried slowly, carefully utilizing Lyra’s syntax. 

“I not _you!”_

“Mrs. Coulter not hurt I mask is here.” 

“Is, is, is, is, is, is, is.” 

“Mrs. Coulter not hurt I, mask here.” 

“Is, is, is, is, is, is, is. Lyra gone.” 

It took an immense amount of self-control for Mrs. Coulter to continue to speak in Lyra’s strange way, but she knew that she couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes, if Lyra was going to continue to speak at all. She wished she knew something that Lyra actually liked, so she could pare some word with something positive, and have a way to comfort Lyra. The alethiometer used to be a comfort to Lyra, but now even that was associated with pain. Then it came to her. Oh, how horrible. But it might be her only option left. 

“Uncle? Lyra want Uncle.” 

“Lyra gone,” But there was a flicker of uncertainty in her voice. 

“Uncle want Lyra,” Mrs. Coulter said in a singsong tone. 

Lyra crossed her arms, eyes narrowed, lower lip pouting. “Mrs. Coulter hurt Lyra Lyra want Uncle.” 

“Mrs. Coulter is...sorry.”

“Is, is, is, is, is, is.” Lyra got out of the bed, went over to the desk, and threw the tray on the floor, shattering the dishes that were perched on it.

Mrs. Coulter dug her fingers into the bedsheets. The golden monkey appeared at her side, and she dug her fingers into his neck gratefully. 

“Mrs. Coulter _hurt_ Lyra. Lyra hurts Lyra.” 

Lyra picked up a large shard of a broken ceramic dish and raised it high, glaring at her mother. Mrs. Coulter shot out of the bed and grabbed Lyra’s wrist, _hard,_ before she could drive the sharp edge into her leg. “No! Lyra, stop!” 

“Mrs. Coulter _hurt_ Lyra!” Lyra said as she struggled. 

Mrs. Coulter managed to wrestle the ceramic shard out of Lyra’s grasp, cutting both of their hands in the process. Lyra screamed. 

The golden monkey dashed off the bed, hurrying out of the room to go find bandages. Mrs. Coulter lifted Lyra back onto the bed. She ripped a sheet easily with the strength of her fear and anger, and used it to quickly wrap the crying girl’s hand. 

Mrs. Coulter instinctively pulled Lyra into a hug. 

“Soft hurt!” Lyra protested. 

Mrs. Coulter pulled away and removed her velvet gloves, one torn and bloodied, the other still intact. She wiped at the tears on Lyra’s face with her clean hand. Lyra held Mrs. Coulter’s hand to her face with her uninjured one. 

“Lyra is is is is is is is...sorry.” 

Mrs. Coulter wasn’t sure if Lyra understood what that particular word meant, but it stabbed her heart nonetheless. “No,” Mrs. Coulter said gently. “Lyra doesn’t need to be sorry. Lyra was just...scared.” 

“Scared?” Lyra’s eyes were large and curious, and for a moment it seemed she might understand, then Lyra began repeating the other words in Mrs. Coulter’s sentence, like she was trying to organize them. “To, to, to, to, to, to, be. Be to. To be. Doesn’t. Need, need need need.” 

The golden monkey returned to her side with the bandages and a cleaner. Mrs. Coulter sighed. Lyra was not going to like this. 

“Lyra, Mrs. Coulter needs to clean your wound.” 

“Needs, needs, needs, needs. Mrs. Coulter. Your, your, your. Lyra. Wound, wound, wound, wound clean. Clean clean, clean, clean.” 

Mrs. Coulter exchanged a glance with the golden monkey. The golden monkey held the fresh bandage at the ready. Mrs. Coulter unwound the bedsheet, gripped Lyra’s wrist and poured the liquid over hand. She held her tightly as Lyra squirmed. 

“Hurts!” 

“I know darling,” Mrs. Coulter said, relieved that Lyra was still speaking. “Mrs. Coulter is sorry.” 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry. Is, is, is, is, is.” 

Mrs. Coulter bandaged the wound carefully. Mrs. Coulter had the golden monkey send for a servant. 

Lyra huddled in Mrs. Coulter’s arms as the servant cleaned up the spilled tray and took away the soiled blankets. He avoided looking at Mrs. Coulter, but his dog daemon would occasionally stare up at her fearfully. Mrs. Coulter found herself absurdly amused by this. Normally, she wouldn’t want to be seen wearing a strange mask, clutching a frightened girl, but she was too full of, she realized, _pride_ to care about the opinions of a simple servant. 

When he was gone and there were new blankets, Lyra squirmed out of her arms and inched tentatively towards the center of the bed. 

Lyra looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Coulter, then stared down at the blankets. “Truth.” 

It took Mrs. Coulter a moment to realize what she meant. She got out the alethiometer hastily, and handed it to her. 

Lyra took it, and held it in her hands. She didn’t open it, but she pressed the cold metal to her hands. 


	8. Tell

“Uncle. North. _Bolvangar_ _._ Want.” 

“You want to go back to Bolvangar to see your Uncle in the North?” 

“ _Lyra_ not you.” 

Mrs. Coulter smirked at the classic annoyance in Lyra’s voice. She still didn’t want to be called ‘you’ but the fact that she wanted to be called ‘Lyra’ now instead of ‘I’ was, in Mrs. Coulter’s opinion, an improvement. She also seemed to recognize that ‘your’ was a form of ‘you.’ That was something. 

Mrs. Coulter would rather swallow glass than allow Lyra and her ‘Uncle’ to see each other. But Lyra was using the alethiometer now, and she was talking. As much as she didn’t trust Asriel with an intercised child (and especially _despised_ the idea that Lyra could prefer his care over hers) she couldn’t risk Lyra sliding back into silence. That wretched man might be her only hope. And she knew how to get Asriel to come to Bolvangar. There was still something that he wanted. 

Mrs. Coulter ran her hand down Lyra’s arm. She touched Lyra’s hand and the alethiometer. “Lyra ask eat?” 

“Lyra not eat,” Lyra said sullenly. 

“ _I_ ask eat.” 

Lyra hesitated. “Lyra see Uncle?” 

“Lyra see Uncle,” Mrs. Coulter said, managing to keep her voice warm. 

“North, Bolvangar, Uncle, Lyra?” 

Mrs. Coulter nodded, thinking for a moment how best to phrase her response. “Yes,” she tried. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” Lyra turned the dials of the alethiometer thoughtfully. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Lyra see Uncle, North Bolvangar.” 

Mrs. Coulter nodded, deciding to just repeat what Lyra said as a way to affirm it. “Yes, Lyra see Uncle, North, Bolvangar.” That way, there was less likely to be a problem with communication. 

“Lyra not eat,” Lyra said. 

Mrs. Coulter frowned. 

“I ask eat,” Lyra said. 

Mrs. Coulter relaxed, releasing the bedsheet that she hadn’t realized she had started gripping. 

“I eat...chalk. Chalk coco. I eat. I eat—” 

“Chocolatl?” Mrs. Coulter dared interrupt her. 

“I eat, I eat, I eat,” Lyra’s brow was knit with frustration. “Chalk, chalk, let, let, tell, tell, tell.” 

Mrs. Coulter went over to the sleeping golden monkey and nudged him with her foot. He gave her a look of annoyance and snuggled more tightly around Pan. The golden monkey was on edge because, although Lyra was improving, Pan still hadn’t changed at all. The implications of this disturbed him greatly, and it angered him that Mrs. Coulter wanted to brush this aside and just focus on Lyra. 

“Get up you useless thing,” Mrs. Coulter pinched him, twisting the skin and fur hard. 

The golden monkey yelped and jolted to his feet. 

“Lyra wants chocolatl. Make sure the servants put some nutrition powder into it.” The golden monkey glared at her venomously but stalked out of the room to do her bidding. 

“Well, if Lyra wants it...” She could have sworn she heard him mumble. 

Mrs. Coulter was surprised and overjoyed when Lyra actually did drink from the mug (lukewarm, Mrs. Coulter had carefully tested it) of chocolatl. 

Lyra brought her hands up to hold the mug herself, but she was shaky and uncoordinated, and in her efforts to get more of it down her throat faster she ended up pouring it down her shirt. Lyra began crying. 

“Hurts! Wet not like.” 

“Shhh, it’s okay darling, Mama will make it better.” Mrs. Coulter dabbed Lyra dry as quickly as possible and changed her into a fresh shirt. 

“Mama, mama, mama, mama, mama, mama.” 

“Mrs. Coulter is your Mama,” Mrs. Coulter explained gently. She hoped that the word ‘Mama’ would be both easier for Lyra to say than ‘mother’ and have a positive connotation attached to it. ‘Mama’ would be the one who took care of her when she was at her most vulnerable, when she needed her the most. 

“Your! You! _I_ not—” 

“Sorry,” Mrs. Coulter said, mustering her patience. “Mrs. Coulter is Lyra’s Mama.” 

“Is, is, is, is, is, is, is.” Lyra said thoughtfully. “Truth say Mrs. Coulter hurt Mrs. Coulter.” 

Mrs. Coulter was taken aback. “You asked it about me?” 

“Is, is, is, is, is...” Lyra said evasively. 

Mrs. Coulter turned away, folding and unfolding Lyra’s chocolatl-stained shirt. There were many downsides to her daughter having a powerful truth-telling device. She couldn’t be sure how much Lyra understood. Lyra was having trouble with words, but that didn’t necessarily mean her other cognitive functions were impaired. And Lyra clearly had sensory issues, hating getting wet, hating velvet. Lyra was clearly disconnected from this world, and from her daemon, but when she used the alethiomenter...she was connected to a universe of knowledge. And there were so, so many many things Mrs. Coulter didn’t want her daughter to know. 

Asriel burst into her chambers at Bolvanger with classic arrogance. “So Marisa, you wanted me to come here and pick one myself? That’s a bit morbid isn’t it, even for you?” 

There were few people that could make Marisa Coulter nervous. Asriel was one of them. 

Mrs. Coulter wrung her hands, then spread them apart. “Actually, there is another reason...” But she needn’t finish that thought, for Asriel’s eyes had already trailed to the bed. 

“Uncle?” Lyra said, eyes hopeful. 

Lord Asriel frowned, and Mrs. Coulter could see it moving across his face, the knowledge that something was wrong. He swiveled around to find Pan, who was lying in the dog bed with the golden monkey curled around him. 

“Marisa, what have you done?” 

Stelmaria sniffed at Pan, as the golden monkey clutched the intercised daemon more tightly. Stelmaria lifted her head and growled. “They’ve been cut.” 

Lord Asriel moved so fast Mrs. Coulter barely had time to process it, as his hand closed around her neck and he slammed her into the wall. 

“You’ve gone too far with your experiments this time, Mrs. Coulter,” Asriel spat. 

Stelmaria lifted the golden monkey by the scruff. 

“I’ll kill you for this Marisa,” He squeezed tighter and Mrs. Coulter’s hands came up to scratch at him instinctively. 

“Uncle, no! No hurt Mama!” 

The voice and the knowledge of the small body between them, was enough to give Marisa the strength to push Asriel off of her. The golden monkey twisted in Stelmaria’s grasp and reached up to pinch and twist her ear until the large daemon released him. 

“Lyra,” Mrs. Coulter gasped, reaching out to put a protective arm around her. 

Lord Asriel stepped back, breathing heavily through his teeth. 

The golden monkey wrapped an arm around Pan, and glared up at all of them. 

“Uncle no hurt Mama!” Lyra yelled. Her gaze was intense, brown eyes burning. “Truth say Magi, magi, magi is, is, is, is, kill Lyra! Mama no magi kill Lyra! No magi, no magi.” 

Mrs. Coulter was shocked to hear Lyra defending her. 

“You see what you’ve done, she can’t even talk!” Asriel pointed a finger at their daughter and Mrs. Coulter felt compelled to pull the girl behind her.

“Lyra talk!” Lyra said indignantly. 

“She’s gotten better,” Mrs. Coulter said, doing her best to calm him. “She’s improving—” 

“Better?! Better than _what_ , exactly? Marisa, no one should have to live like that, without their daemon. Anything would be better than that.” 

Lyra began to scream. 

“Leave,” Marisa said, a fiery anger coming to her as she advanced on him. He may believe that he was more physically strong, but her anger and passion could give her the advantage over anyone. 

Stelmaria growled, but began to retreat. Lord Asriel backed away. “I’ll pick a child and be on my way. It seems I may as well have used our own like you did.” 

Stelmaria gave her one last glare before leaving. Asriel slammed the door behind him. 

Marisa knelt down to Lyra, who had her hands over her ears and was crying and shaking. She wrapped her arms tightly around the girl, gently rocking her. 

“Uncle, uncle hurt...uncle.” 

“Shhh, darling. It’s okay, everything will be okay.” Mrs. Coulter couldn’t help the joy that accompanied the pain in her heart and her neck. “Mama loves Lyra.” 

“Loves?” 

“Yes. Lyra can ask the truth about it.” 

“Love, love, love, love. Lyra. Ask. Can, can. About about about about. The, the, the, the. It, it, it, it, it.” 

Mrs. Coulter carried Lyra back to the bed, laying her down and carefully fixing the alethiometer back in her hands. 

Lyra turned the dials. “Love,” Lyra said finally, a faraway look in her eyes and a smile settling over her features. “Yes, Lyra love Mama.” 


	9. Truth

“Uncle gone.” Lyra said. 

“Well, he’ll be back,” Mrs. Coulter said darkly. 

“No. Door. Cut. World. Uncle...” Lyra let out a shuddering breath. “Kill child.” 

Mrs. Coulter lifted the drink to Lyra’s lips again. “Chocolatl?” 

“No.” Lyra’s voice was devoid of the energy it usually had when she was refusing an order. 

Mrs. Coulter set the mug aside and looked at the alethiometer thoughtfully. She wished that she could control what it told Lyra. If she could create a device just like it that would tell lies instead of truths, she would. 

“Lyra,” Mrs. Coulter spoke carefully, enunciating every word with care. “Ask, truth when first read truth?” 

“No.” Lyra shook her head. Her voice was so gentle and defeated when she spoke, that Mrs. Coulter’s anger wasn’t provoked. 

Mrs. Coulter sighed. “Lyra...Lyra, Lyra, Lyra. My darling, there are many more important things in the world than your Uncle.” 

Lyra was silent. 

Mrs. Coulter had hoped that she might start repeating the words, had even hoped that she would protest at the use of the word ‘your’. 

“Want Roger.” Lyra said with a nod. 

There was a stubbornness in her gaze that made Mrs. Coulter suspect that Lyra had figured out at least some of their history surrounding Roger. 

“Well, he’s not here.” Mrs. Coulter said, lying automatically. “He escaped with the Gyptians.” 

“Truth say, he here.” 

Lyra looked at Mrs. Coulter with narrowed eyes that glinted fiercely. 

“Well, you can’t see him,” Mrs. Coulter said. “He’s sick and I don’t want you to catch what he has.” 

Lyra pushed the alethiometer away from her. “Mrs. Coulter _lies!”_

The golden monkey looked up from where he was curled around Pan. “Lyra, you can see Roger if you answer the question Mrs. Coulter wants you to.” 

Lyra looked at her smugly. 

Mrs. Coulter clenched her jaw. “Yes, of course you can.” She did her best to keep her voice sweet around her heavy breathing. She did not like feeling cornered and outnumbered by her intercised daughter and her daemon. 

Lyra reached out and took the alethiometer. She turned the dials, then gasped, eyes distant and glazed with surprise. “Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin, dead, dead, dead. First time, first time, Lyra read. Gyptian Mrs. Coulter kill.” 

That was like a knife between her ribcage and Mrs. Coulter stood and turned away, clutching her chest. Her thoughts were racing. Not only had Lyra read the alethiometer before she was intercised, she had also known...oh how horrible. But the implications for her research, her work. Of course it wouldn’t be feasible to give every child an alethiometer before they were intercised, but if she could just invent something like an alethiometer, something that held memory rather than truth—or even better, false memories, better memories...there was a lot to be discovered. 

Mrs. Coulter sat back down and took Lyra’s hand, only half aware of her actions. 

She gave Lyra’s hand a squeeze and Lyra squeezed back tightly. 

“Roger,” Lyra pleaded. 

“Yes, yes. You can see Roger. Now will you eat?” 

Mrs. Coulter was not at all fond of the idea of Lyra seeing Roger. The boy reminded her uncomfortably of a younger Marcel. There had been more than one reason for her choice to not adopt him alongside Lyra, but now she saw that if she had just adopted the little brat in the first place, perhaps Lyra would have never ran away. But there was no need to follow that destructive line of thinking. The pair of them could have done more than just wrecked her fancy floors and torn up her nice flat with noise. They could have escaped together. They could have stolen her blueprints. 

Mrs. Coulter had been keeping Roger separate from the other children, in his own room, since he arrived. She hadn’t wanted him intercised, because he was her best weapon for controlling Lyra. 

Roger’s face hardened when he saw her, but he had lost the confidence and flair from their last meeting. 

Mrs. Coulter wore her smile. There was undoubtably something to enjoy about the power she held in these interactions. 

“Roger, how lovely to see you again.” 

Roger gulped and gripped the bedsheets tightly. Salcilia scrambled behind his back. 

“I’ve come for a little visit because it turns out that I actually could use someone new in the kitchen at my flat,” Mrs. Coulter infused her voice with charm, a laugh hiding just beneath each word. “You’ve worked in a kitchen before, yes?” 

“Yes,” Roger nodded hastily. “Ma’am. At Jordan College.” 

Mrs. Coulter had to look away because there was hope infecting his eyes and voice. “Well,” she said with a sigh. “Consider this an interview.” 

She glanced at the boy and saw that his daemon was peering around him curiously. 

Mrs. Coulter watched his face closely as she spoke her next words. “My daughter had an unfortunate accident. I believe you knew her. Lyra.” 

Roger’s eyes widened with fear and he shivered. 

“It’s important that you treat her well. She may seem...different.” 

“ _I_ will always treat Lyra well.” His voice was cold. 

Mrs. Coulter laughed. “Good. Good, then. Wonderful. Would you like to see her now?” 

“Yes.” Roger bit the word out. 

“Let’s just pray to the Authority, that no unfortunate accidents happen to you, Roger Parslow.” 

“Roger, Roger, Roger!” Lyra banged her hands on the bed excitedly when she saw him. 

Roger looked startled, and Mrs. Coulter pressed her hand to his back and firmly guided him forward. 

“Lyra?” His voice held terror and questions and unshed tears. 

“Here, here!” Lyra got off the bed quickly, landing shakily on her feet. Mrs. Coulter resisted the urge to reach for her. 

Lyra opened her arms and Roger embraced her. Lyra giggled. 

Mrs. Coulter looked away, fighting back the jealousy crawling up her throat. 

Salcilia went over to Pan to sniff him, and the golden monkey growled. Roger and Salcilia exchanged a dark look. 

“Lyra,” worry and care glittered in his eyes as he looked over her. “Lyra, I’m so glad you’re...it’s so good to see you.” 

“See, see, see, Roger,” Lyra’s voice flickered uncertainly, and Mrs. Coulter detected embarrassment there. It was a sign that Lyra was self-aware. Lyra pressed her hand to Roger’s face, then pulled away. 

Mrs. Coulter felt the pressure of sympathy on her chest. She wanted to do something to stop Lyra from lowering in her friend’s eyes. 

“Lyra has been learning the secrets of the universe,” Mrs. Coulter said, hoping to create a distraction. 

Lyra looked over her shoulder. She held up the alethiometer. “Truth?” she said feebly. 

“It’s been quite essential to my research,” Mrs. Coulter said, suddenly feeling a bit ridiculous. What was it inside her that always compelled her to try to impress everyone in the room? Even some half-witted orphan kitchen-boy? 

Rogar spared Mrs. Coulter a disdainful glance. “I’m sure whatever you’ve been up to, is really special, Lyra.” 

Lyra smiled, and Mrs. Coulter could see it was pained and forced. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for supporting this story with comments and kudos! They mean a lot!!


	10. Tea Time

The kitchen was filled with the smell of eggs and sausage as Roger multitasked. He worked with the kind of confidence and flair that only came with experience. 

Mrs. Coulter watched him quietly, not commenting. Her eyes served as daggers, held and ready to be thrown if given the right signal. 

Roger ignored her. The only sign that she might be succeeding in making him uncomfortable was the way his eyes flicked briefly to her as he passed her, carrying the tray to Lyra. 

Mrs. Coulter followed behind slowly. She leaned in the doorway and watched as he served her daughter. 

“They’re not hot,” Roger said gently. “I made sure to let them cool a little.” 

Mrs. Coulter bit her lip, doing her best to stifle amazement as Lyra picked up a sausage and bit into it—eating her first solid food since the intercision. 

The golden monkey sat up, tilting his head as he watched them. She exchanged a look with him. She shouldn’t let her pettiness get in the way of her daughter’s treatment, but her urge to sabotage the bond between her daughter and Roger was too strong. Mrs. Coulter turned on her heel.

“Mama.” 

Mrs. Coulter spun back around. “Yes, dear?” 

“Mama...here.” Lyra’s voice strained around the words. 

Roger watched Mrs. Coulter with unblinking eyes as she approached, backing away from Lyra slowly like she was a predator who might attack if provoked by quick movement. The boy was not entirely stupid. 

Lyra pressed her hand to Mrs. Coulter’s face. “Mama...sad.” 

“I’m not sad,” Mrs. Coulter said, feeling irritation rising. 

Roger was attempting to slide out of the room. She snapped her fingers at him. “Wait there.” 

Roger froze. 

“Mama not like...Roger.” 

Roger’s face had grown pink and he was fidgeting with the hem of the too-tight uniform Mrs. Coulter had assigned him. 

Mrs. Coulter laughed. “How ridiculous. I have no ill feelings towards the waitstaff whatsoever.” 

“Red, red, red, ick, less, less, less, ill, ill, ill.” 

“Roger, go make tea,” Mrs. Coulter said. 

“Y-yes ma’am.” Roger gave a slight bow and practically jumped from the room. 

Lyra was still struggling with all of the words that Mrs. Coulter had said, and this gave her the time to smooth down her daughter’s hair and tuck it behind her ears. “Roger is helping me,” Mrs. Coulter said patronizingly. “It’s hard taking care of you all by myself.” 

Lyra looked at the blanket, running her finger along the seam. “Not stupid,” she said finally. “Lyra far.” 

Mrs. Coulter sighed, gathering Lyra’s chin up and tilting it to catch her eyes. “Of course I don’t think you’re stupid. After all, you’re one of the few people who can read the alethiometer.” 

The instrument was sitting beside Lyra on the bed so Mrs. Coulter picked it up and put it in her daughter’s hands. “I have something I want you to ask it.” 

“Ask truth?” 

“Yes.” 

Mrs. Coulter let her gaze trail over to the golden monkey, who gave a small nod. “Lyra...ask. Ask where Pantalaimon.” 

“Pant, pant, pant a lie man?” 

“Yes.” 

“Pan,” Lyra breathed, and Mrs. Coulter swore she could hear a touch of longing in her voice. 

Lyra turned the dials of the alethiometer. 

“Pan,” Lyra’s voice was loud and fearful. A distant look stretched over her eyes. “Gone.” 

A shiver ran down Mrs. Coulter’s back. 

“No, no. Pan’s not gone. He’s here. He’s just over there.” Mrs. Coulter looked over at the golden monkey who was carrying Pan towards them. 

Mrs. Coulter slid the alethiometer away and the golden monkey placed Pan in Lyra’s hands. 

“No!” Lyra screamed. “Pan, gone!” 

Time slowed as Lyra lifted her hands and Mrs. Coulter realized what she was about to do. She grabbed Lyra’s hands and the daemon before Lyra could throw him. Lyra crumbled into sobs, and Mrs. Coulter carried Pan back over to his bed. Just as she was setting him down, the daemon’s tongue darted out and licked her wrist. Mrs. Coulter paused. She felt a tightness in her chest, like warmth was clamping down on her heart. She looked over her shoulder to see that Lyra was _hugging_ the golden monkey. Shocked by the developments, and the intense feelings they created, Mrs. Coulter turned back to Pan and stroked his fur. Pan nuzzled her hand, the movement small and just perceptible. 

Mrs. Coulter let out a shaky breath. Her mind couldn’t bring her thoughts together, though she knew she would be able to think more clearly if that terribly intense warmth released her heart. She returned to Lyra’s side, and the golden monkey released their daughter. Mrs. Coulter breathed a sigh of relief at the clarity this brought. 

It only lasted a moment though, because Lyra threw her arms around her, gripping her as tightly as she could. “Lyra gone, Lyra gone, Lyra gone.” 

Mrs. Coulter's arms were at her sides, and Lyra reached out and pressed one of them to her own back. Mrs. Coulter raised her arms around the girl gently. 

“Hug tight, hug tight. Lyra gone, gone, gone, gone.” 

Mrs. Coulter carefully tightened her hold around the girl, and Lyra let out a breath, her entire body going limp. 

“Lyra here,” Lyra breathed. 

“Take a break,” Mrs. Coulter told Roger. “And pour yourself a cup of tea.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Roger nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” 

She allowed the boy to relax just a little before speaking again. “And pour me one too.” 

Roger tensed. Mrs. Coulter smiled. 

She sat across from him in the living room, taking her time with the hot liquid. Roger’s daemon sat at his feet as a dog, who whimpered every now and then. The golden monkey was with Lyra and Pan, and Roger thought that Mrs. Coulter must be the only person who was _less_ intimidating without a daemon. 

“Tell me about Lyra.” 

“Well, uh,” Roger fumbled and set his tea aside. “Lyra’s the bravest person I know,” he gained confidence as he spoke the words. “I met Lyra when I first starting working in the kitchens. She tried to steal some biscuits and when I chased after her, she hit me with mud.” 

Mrs. Coulter laughed. It sounded like something Lyra would do. Then her face fell, and she looked down to hide the sadness in her eyes. 

“If anyone can get through...” Roger paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully. “An _accident_ like this, it’s her.” 

Mrs. Coulter sniffed. “Well,” she said standing up and avoiding eye contact. “You should get back to work. Thank you for the tea.”   



	11. Voice from Past

Mrs. Coulter made sure that Lyra was asleep before approaching the small bed on the floor. She knelt down beside it, just staring for a while, her entire body tense. It was different at Bolvangar, where medical procedures made it necessary to frequently break the great taboo. Here it made her, almost squeamish. But she was Lyra’s mother, and at a different stage of development it would have been normal. 

Mrs. Coulter steeled herself, and draped her hand over the edge of the bed. She was almost relieved when nothing happened. Then there was a shift, and Pan pressed his head into Mrs. Coulter’s hand. 

Mrs. Coulter gasped. “Hello, Pantalaimon. It’s okay, you’re not alone.” 

When there was no change in Pan, Mrs. Coulter began to wonder if the daemon had merely touched her by accident. Then Pan began licking her hand. 

Mrs. Coulter forced herself not to pull away, doing her best to ignore the uncomfortable feelings of warmth and affection her daughter's daemon was summoning. 

The golden monkey was curled on the bed, pretending to be asleep. He left a foot of space between himself and Lyra. Mrs. Coulter thought about the way Lyra had hugged the golden monkey, and the way Pan reacted to her touch. It seemed like Lyra still wanted the touch of a daemon, and Pan still craved the touch of a human. The intercision prevented them from reaching each other, so they needed someone else. 

There _had_ been experiments done at Bolvangar that attempted to revive daemons with human touch, and children with daemon touch—but none of them had worked. The daemons had responded the same way to the intercised child’s touch as they did to the nurses’ touch—they essentially didn’t respond, or recognize the difference between people. 

She was Lyra’s mother. Perhaps that was why Pan responded to her. She was enough like Lyra that perhaps her presence could trigger some form of memory—but she wasn’t actually Lyra, who he had been cut from. The barrier of intercision wasn’t there. 

Pan yawned and curled into a tight ball around her finger. 

Pan sat in Mrs. Coulter’s lap, and the golden monkey had his arms around Lyra’s neck. It felt as though Mrs. Coulter’s intestines were curled around her daughter. She did her best to suppress her discomfort. 

“Found Pan. Pan back. Found Pan.” 

Mrs. Coulter turned her gaze to the tray of food on her daughter’s lap. Lyra’s voice was cheerful and matter-of-fact. Mrs. Coulter was just trying to keep herself together. Whatever was happening, was a major advancement...but Lyra thought _her daemon_ was Pan. Either that or perhaps “Pan” was just the word Lyra was using for daemon. 

“Lyra, where is Pan?” 

Lyra pointed at the golden monkey and the golden monkey gave her an almost smug look. How long had it been since he had received this kind of affection from a human? It took him back to their childhood. Mrs. Coulter, on the other hand, missed having something to sink her nails into. Looking at Pan, intrusive thoughts of violence would enter her mind. It was all she could do not to throw the foreign daemon across the floor. 

“La—Lyra.” Pan spoke with great effort. 

“Shh. Darling.” Mrs. Coulter smoothed down his fur. 

“You were gone for so long,” Pan managed to say eventually. “Where were you?” 

“Lyra,” Mrs. Coulter said with a touch of sternness. “Who is this?” 

She pointed at Pan but Lyra didn’t look. 

“Your daemon,” Lyra said happily, stroking the fur away from the golden monkey’s face. 

Mrs. Coulter wanted to find a way to put this right, the sooner the better. But she knew it was crucial that Pan be able to speak. If she tried to force them together again, she suspected the daemon would be hit the hardest, and she didn’t want him to never be able to recover. 

There was a knock on the door. “Leave the food outside the door,” she said with just enough harshness to know she’d be obeyed. 

“Yes, ma’am!” Came Roger’s startled response. 

Mrs. Coulter sighed. They couldn’t hide out in here forever, but she definitely didn’t want visitors now. 

“Lyra, is that...Roger?” Pan said, perking up at the sound of the voice. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Coulter said, the strokes of her fingers in his fur becoming dangerous. “He’s just bringing us our food like usual. But he’s busy today.” 

“Oh.” Pan seemed disappointed but understanding. “Perhaps we can run on the rooftops with him tonight. It would be nice to get some fresh air for once.” 

“Pan, what’s the last thing you remember?” Mrs. Coulter asked. 

“Well...yesterday.” The daemon’s eyes glazed over, and he became agitated. “We, I. Roger, we must have done something with Roger. Another mud fight? And Billy and Tony were there this time!” 

So Pan had memories, just not any recent ones. And she wondered if he had the ability to create new memories. Perhaps if she could reconnect him with Lyra, his memory would return. The strange thing was, he seemed happy with the memories he had now—of Jordan college, it seemed. A thought struck Mrs. Coulter, and it was almost amusing. 

“Maybe we’ll see Mrs. Coulter again.” Mrs. Coulter said. 

Pan shuddered. “I hope not. We’re lucky we got away from her, Lyra.” 

Very lucky indeed. 

“Mama, I’m hungry,” Lyra whined. 

Mrs. Coulter carried Pan with her to collect the food, feeling possessive. 

“Oh, soup! Let me have that Lyra.” 

Mrs. Coulter put the bowl on the floor, glad for a break in contact with the insane daemon, and Pan lapped at it like a cat. He was still weasel-formed, and Mrs. Coulter wondered if he would be able to change again. 

“I wanted that soup mama!” 

“Hush, I’ll bring you some more later. Eat your toast.” 

When she was satisfied that Lyra had begun eating, she stood. She gave the room one last cautionary glance before exiting. She found herself sliding down the wall in the hallway, pressing her fingers into her temples. She jumped when she sensed a small face peering at her. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Are you alright?” 

“Yes, no.” Mrs. Coulter stood briskly. 

As she looked down at the young boy, she could feel him gathering his courage. 

“Something’s going on with Lyra.” 

“Yes,” Mrs. Coulter admitted finally. “But it’s not bad, and you can’t interrupt or help with it.” 

Roger thought for a moment, then nodded. 

“When can I see her again?” 

“You can see a part of her again tonight,” Mrs. Coulter decided. “On the terrace. But,” she said leaning forward menacingly. “People who run their mouths soon find that they are unable to run at all.” 

Roger gulped. “Yes, ma’am. I won’t tell anyone ma’am. I promise.” 

Mrs. Coulter surveyed him coolly. “Go,” she said, making him jump. “Lyra wants more soup.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally overcame my writer's block for this story!! I'm happy to be continuing. Thank you for your support!


	12. The Cord

Roger stayed close to the wall as he waited on the terrace. He couldn’t help but stare into the darkness, stare at the ledge with no railing. His heart was beating hard. He couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Coulter had finally decided to dispose of him. He wanted to run inside and hide under the couch. But what good would it do? Mrs. Coulter would always find him. 

When Mrs. Coulter appeared alone, Roger gasped and pressed his back against the wall. “Please, don’t!” Roger shut his eyes tightly. Salcilia flapped her wings rapidly as a moth. 

A flicker of surprise crossed Mrs. Coulter’s eyes, then she laughed. 

Roger whimpered. 

“Roger, don’t be so silly.” 

Roger gave a start at the familiar voice. He looked down to see Pantalaimon at his feet, staring up at him. 

“I thought we taught you not to be afraid of heights,” Pan continued. 

Salcilia landed on his shoulder. She pressed her face into his neck dizzily, trying to keep from passing out. 

“Wha-what’s happening?” 

Mrs. Coulter cupped Roger’s cheek. “Progress.” 

Roger found the gesture oddly comforting. As terrified as he was of the violent woman, he wasn’t used to affection, especially from adults. That in combination with her charm made him relax enough for Salcilia to climb down his leg as a mouse and greet Pan tentatively. 

Roger’s eyes flicked to the ledge and Mrs. Coulter followed his gaze. 

When she looked at him again, there was something in her expression that he couldn’t read. It was almost sadness. “There are many other ways to get a job like that done,” she said quietly. 

Roger took a step away from the wall, watching Mrs. Coulter as he tripped his way into a chair. Mrs. Coulter took a seat as well, glancing at the two daemons who were happily chattering away with each other. 

“You see,” Mrs. Coulter said in a low voice, “that Pan has improved?” 

Roger nodded. 

“But he’s confused. He thinks that I—he thinks that I am Lyra. He wanted to get some fresh air, and see you. He believes that he’s never left Jorden college.” 

Roger didn’t know what to say to that. The way she was confiding in him, it _did_ remind him of Lyra. But he’d be a fool to react to this woman the way he would react to Lyra. So he reverted to his job title. “What can I do to help?” Service, it was what had always granted him security. 

“Not much,” Mrs. Coulter said with a slight edge to her sweet voice, like a shard of sharp almond hidden in chocolatl. “Salcilia can entertain him now and again.” 

The daemons were now running back and forth along the ground, but Salcilia wouldn’t go near the ledge. Pan followed her lead, teasing her about her newfound fear of heights, but staying by her side nonetheless. 

“What if we brought Lyra out here too?” Roger couldn’t keep the hope out of his voice. He would feel a lot safer with his friend at his side. 

Mrs. Coulter tilted her head thoughtfully. “Not now. It’s enough work keeping one daemon from falling.” She looked at the ledge then gazed at him knowingly, amusement lighting her face. “And I have to make sure you don’t fall of course. Those pesky accidents that can happen.” 

Roger gripped the table tightly and nodded. 

“But when she improves,” Mrs. Coulter continued. “I would like to bring her out here...someday.” 

If Roger had known what Stockholm Syndrome was, he might have realized that he had developed it. The threat of death hung over his life, intensifying every moment. Every pleased look Mrs. Coulter gave him, every knowing glance like they were in on a secret—had him reaching, like a flower that would never grow taller than the fence. 

At Jordan College, he had been happy. He had work to do, and he did it well. He was never made to feel that he was inferior because he was a servant, or even that his work was less important than that of the scholars. Instead he felt a part of their dance, a brick that along with the other bricks kept the college standing. And he had the joy of Lyra, so how could he pause long on the differences in their status, when he was just so happy to run beside her? 

But the danger Mrs. Coulter posed, cut into him, awakening desires that had never before been fully realized. When he saw Mrs. Coulter tenderly caring for Lyra, he felt the deepest sin an orphan could feel—the desire for a mother. 

It was something that almost made him sick, the realization that that was what he wanted. To have someone who would love _him_ , care for _him_ , above all else. Who would never kill him. If only he hadn’t left Jordan College, he never would have had to know this. 

When the emotion became too much, he slipped into the lift with the Butler, telling him he was to deliver Mrs. Coulter’s mail. He felt the eyes of the man searing into his neck, but the man said nothing. 

He wandered the streets. The air was cold, but bright. When night fell, a light rain picked up into a heavy one. 

Roger huddled under the eaves of a candy shop. The colorful display behind him was jarring. 

Two figures approached. Mrs. Coulter kept a hand on her daughter, but the girl huddled close to her. She looked so different than the independent orphan Roger had known. The hood of her large raincoat was up, and the golden monkey could be seen inside of it, his arms hugging her neck. But the alethiometer was clutched between her hands like a guiding light, out in the rain as if nothing could harm it, as if water didn't snuff out fire. 

When Roger saw Mrs. Coulter’s expression, he felt as though his face had been pressed into a sizzling pan. 

Mrs. Coulter gripped his arm so tightly he thought the bone might snap. When Lyra was tucked safely away in the bedroom, she pressed him into the wall and closed her fingers around his neck, cutting off his air with all of the precision of an experienced doctor indifferently cutting an umbilical cord. 

“Try that one more time, Roger, and the ground will become acquainted with your broken body. If you ever leave again, I promise you, I will kill you myself.” 

It wasn’t like Mrs. Coulter to be so honest. 


End file.
